The Birthing of Ghosts

 

They explode from the branch

together

like white fireworks,

their magnesium feathers

shimmering

in the torch-beam;

 

three ice forms

in flight.

 

This way

ghosts

were

born.

 

It’s true: down dark lanes

of hedgerow and holloway,

across clodded fields

shambling drunk folk

got the horrors and had to

create a new mythology.

 

It was their way

of saving face.

 

They were said to be

bigger than a man.

Swooping down,

they agreed, some

screamed – or worse,

others stayed silent.

 

To explain the

unexplainable

is a human

need.

 

Several wars later,

with wing-tips of chrome

and laser eyes

of brilliant xanthous,

talons stowed,

 

they rise

 

beating

a rhythm

into the

night.

 

 

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